The old South Boston Aquarium standsin a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.The airy tanks are dry.Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;my hand tingled to burst the bubblesdrifting from the noses of the crowded, compliant fish.

My hand draws back. I often sign stillfor the dark downward and vegetating kingdomof the fish and reptile. One morning last March,I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,yellow dinosaur steamshovels were gruntingas they cropped up tons of mush and grassto gouge their underworld garage.

Parking spaces luxuriate like civicsandpiles in the heart of Boston.a girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girdersbraces the tingling Statehouse,

shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shawand his bell-cheeked Negro infantryon St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.

Two months after marching through Boston,half of the regiment was dead;at the dedication,William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbonein the city's throat.Its Colonel is a leanas a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,a greyhound's gentle tautness;he seems to wince at pleasure,and suffocate for privacy.

He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,peculiar power to choose life and diewhen he leads his black soldiers to death,he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greensthe old white churches hold their airof sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flagsquilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic

The stone statutes of the abstract Union Soldiergrow slimmer and younger each year-wasp-waisted, they doze over musketsand muse through their sideburns…

Shaw's father wanted no monumentexcept the ditch,where his son's body was thrownand lost with his "niggers."

The ditch is nearer.There are no statutes for the last war here;on Boylston Street, a commercial photographshows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"that survived the blast. Space is nearer.when I crouch to my television set,the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.

Colonel Shawis riding on his bubble,he waitsfor the blessed break.

The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,giant finned cars nose forward like fish;a savage servilityslides by on grease.

The ancient owls' nest must have burned.Hastily, all alone,a glistening armadillo left the scene,rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

and then a baby rabbit jumped out,short-eared, to our surprise.So soft! a handful of intangible ashwith fixed, ignited eyes.

We all went in a yellow school bus,on a Tuesday. We sang the whole way up.We tried to picture the bodies stacked three deepon either side of that zigzag fence.We tried to picture 23,000 of anything.It wasn't that pretty. The dirt smelled like cats.Nobody knew who the statues were. Where wasStonewall Jackson? We wanted Stonewall on his horse.The old cannons were puny. We asked about fireworks.Our guide said that sometimes, the land still let goof fragments from the war—a gold button, a bullet,a tooth migrating to the surface. We searched around.On the way back to the bus, a boy tripped me and I fell—skidding hard along the ground, gravel lodgingin the skin of my palms. I cried the whole way home.After a week, the rocks were gone.My mother said our bodies could digest anything,but that's a lie. Sometimes, at night, I feelthe battlefield moving inside of me.

Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door, mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn, Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind, Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines, (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds, Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well, But now from the fields come, father, come at the daughter's call, And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come right away. Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly, 0 this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, 0 a strange hand writes for our dear son, 0 stricken mother's soul! All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah, now the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd), See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor maybe needs to be better, that brave and simple soul), While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better, She with thin form presently drest in black, By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, 0 that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

He's in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? "Quick step! we're with him before morn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah, Maiden! wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band, Ah, widow! read, with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand, Ah, Wife! sew on, pray on, hope on; Thy life shall not be all forlorn; The foe had better ne'er been born That gets in "Stonewall's way."

By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the GrayThese in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement-day Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement-day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment -day, Wet with the rain, the Blue Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod adn the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray

No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day, Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

Written during the meeting of the first Southern Congress, at Montgomery. February, 1861.

I.

Hath not the morning dawned with added light? And shall not evening call another star Out of the infinite regions of the night, To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are A nation among nations; and the world Shall soon behold in many a distant port Another flag unfurled! Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?And, under God, whose thunder need we fear? Thank Him who placed us here Beneath so kind a sky - the very sun Takes part with us; and on our errands run All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year, And all the gentle daughters in her train, March in our ranks, and in our service wield Long spears of golden grain! A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, June flings her azure banner to the wind, While in the order of their birth Her sisters pass, and many an ample field Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold, Its endless sheets unfold THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm Our happy land shall sleep In a repose as deep As if we lay intrenched behind Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!

II.

And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, In their own treachery caught, By their own fears made bold, And leagued with him of old, Who long since in the limits of the NorthSet up his evil throne, and warred with God - What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, And with a hostile step profane our sod! We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts, And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts Of Moultrie and of Eutaw - who shall foil Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone, But every stock and stone Shall help us; but the very soil, And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, And all for which we love our noble land, Shall fight beside, and through us; sea and strand, The heart of woman, and her hand, Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, Gentle, or grave, or grand; The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm; And in our stiffened sinews we shall blendThe strength of pine and palm!

III.

Nor would we shun the battle-ground, Though weak as we are strong; Call up the clashing elements around, And test the right and wrong! On one side, creeds that dare to teach What Christ and Paul refrained to preach;Codes built upon a broken pledge, And Charity that whets a poniard's edge; Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; Religion, taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, Or not in vague philosophies submerged, Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, Not the mean right to buy the right to live, But life, and home, and health! To doubt the end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod!

IV.

But let our fears - if fears we have - be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time,The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears! Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power; and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: For, to give labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o'er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream, and from New England's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill tops that meet the Northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy vail aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up your valleys, where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys, fast forming into line; And children from their mothers' knees, are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide To lay us down, for freedom's sake, our brother's bones beside; Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade; Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!